


Go From Here

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America
Genre: F/M, Steve tries to date a civilian, blowjob, first-time together sex, unnamed original female character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve decides to put his date first for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go From Here

**Title:**  Go From Here  
 **Author:**  bactaqueen  
 **Rating:**  M  
 **Warnings:**  brief mentions of Steve's mother, vague telling writing style, first-time sex  
 **Setting:**  a Marvel universe in which Steve tries to date a civillian  
 **Characters:**  Steve Rogers/unnamed OFC  
 **Disclaimer:**  This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.  
 **Summary:**  Steve decides to put his date first for once.  
 **Author’s Note:**  This one is weird. The writing isn't my usual style, there's a lot of telling and not a lot of showing, Steve thinks about his mom more than he probably should (not in a sexual way, if you read it you'll see), and the girl--woman, I guess--isn't really "pretty" but he thinks she's beautiful, so there's that? I've been staring at it for about a week and I thought, what the hell, I'll let it loose.

 

She touches his arm and he half-turns, looks down. She's at his elbow, smiling brightly, but he can see the tiredness weighing her down, pulling at the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth. Abashed, he realizes that he should have thought about her day before he asked her here. It's late in the week and her job is as demanding as his in its own ways. When she apologizes to his small crowd of admirers and asks if she can borrow "the captain" for just a moment, he knows exactly what she's going to say.

 _You're an idiot, Rogers,_  he thinks.

His little party lets him escape, gracious smiles all around, but she doesn't take him far. Her voice is mild, sweet as her smile, when she tells him that she's going to take off. She even squeezes his hands and lifts herself on tiptoes, straining even in those impossibly high shoes, to kiss his cheek. Just his cheek. She pulls away before he can turn, capture her lips. She tells him that it was nice to see him and the food was wonderful and that she hopes they meet their fundraising goal, and then she looks up and her smile changes just for him when she asks him to call her the next time he's free.

He doesn't know what they're doing. She doesn't fit into his life and he certainly doesn't fit into hers. But when she lets her hands slide out of his, it's with a lingering touch. She says goodbye and turns to go, and he just doesn't want to be here anymore. He catches her arm and he asks her if he can walk her out.

She looks back at the small crowd he left for her, at the knowing smiles sent their way--and he would blush, he would be embarrassed and maybe a little bit ashamed of his terrible manners, he would, but he  _wants_  this woman, he wants to spend more time with her, and he's man enough--not only Captain America but a man, a real one despite the seemingly endless fascination with him as a performing monkey or a comic book hero come to life--to admit that he wants more from her. He just doesn't know how to tell her that. She gives him that tired smile again and she tells him that she wouldn't want to take him away from his duties.

And isn't that what she's doing here? What they're doing here, in this place, dressed in a suit and a forgettable black dress, smiling and playing nice and not touching? His work. Again.

They've been dancing around this for months. Work-night dates at the bar near her apartment or one of the restaurants Tony sends them to, dates that end in warm kisses and promising touches, these fundraisers, trips to the museum cut off by emergencies in Harlem and on Long Island and in Boston. He's frustrated. He feels like he keeps hitting walls. But he doesn't want to give her up, let her go. It's selfish of him; she could do better than him, she could find someone to fit into her life, someone who could put her first and not have to run off whenever a supervillain got a stupid idea or hurt a lot of people. But she looks up at him with those liquid brown eyes and he, defiantly, doesn't want her to.

"Let me walk you out," he says again, and this time he leaves out the  _please_.

She looks up at him. He thinks he sees a flash of welcoming darkness in her eyes, but he can't be sure and doesn't want to take more than he already has. It seems to be forever before she relaxes and nods and smiles again, telling him that would be fine. Maybe she thinks he's going to steal a kiss in the elevator.

The thought certainly doesn't lack appeal.

Against his better judgment--and based on the minute widening of her eyes and the sudden tension in her body, it's against hers, too--he slides his hand down her arm and fits her hand into his. Too late, he realizes why his better judgment was right. It's as good as painting a target on her back, not just for the media, but for the other women in the room, too, the women like Ms. Potts--with none of her scruples. He's  _not_  stupid. He  _knows_  how these things work. But he can't help himself. He needs the anchor, needs the connection, needs the bravery she lends him.

She loosens her grip from his as they start for the exit, and she must see something on his face because she murmurs, "Thank you, Captain. You're such a gentleman." She tucks her arm into his elbow.  _She's saving him._  She's saving herself. Now he's not being affectionate, he's being old-fashioned and gentlemanly. His heart seems squeezed in his chest. For a moment, he thinks he might have an asthma attack.

He hasn't had one of those in seventy years.

In the elevator, she drops her hand from him and steps away under the pretense of first pressing the ground floor button, and then fixing her hair. She stares blankly at her reflection in the gilded door and avoids looking at him.

"It really was nice," she says. "I'm glad you invited me."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be with you more."

She looks at him then, a small mysterious smile and sparkling eyes. "It's all right, Steve. I know you have to work."

He looks down at his hands. He wonders at himself, at years at war, at years commanding, and how he's standing here in an elevator with a woman--she isn't even all that pretty, but she's one of the most beautiful he's ever seen--and his throat is dry and his head's a mess, his thoughts tumbling over themselves. It makes him think that fighting Nazis was easier.

"I'd like to be done for tonight," he mumbles.

She touches his arm again, affection and understanding and reassurance in that simple touch. "It's too bad you can't just slip out," she teases.

He glances at her as the elevator  _dings_  and the doors open. "I could..."

She gives him a reproachful look as she starts out. "Don't be silly. That would be irresponsible. Captain America isn't irresponsible."

"Steve Rogers wants to be." He winces. He usually tries not to let that bitterness slip out, but there it is, between them, and he feels transparent. His identity crisis isn't her problem.

But now she's looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, and he thinks he can see the wheels in her head turning. He shouldn't have said anything. He starts to open his mouth, to try to play it off, but she stops him with a question.

"What else does Steve Rogers want?" she asks softly.

His heart swells. He looks to the elevator, at the shiny doors  _swoosh_ ing shut, and back at her. Feeling bold, feeling nothing and everything like himself, he tells her, "Steve Rogers would like to go home with his girlfriend."

She purses her lips. His heart drops and his lungs burn. No, he misread her, he messed up-- Then he sees the smile in her eyes, the blush coloring her cheeks, and she asks him, quietly, "I'm your girlfriend?" and it's ridiculous, they're adults--he's nearly  _one hundred years old_ , for crying out loud, and she's ten years out of college--but he smiles shyly at her.

At least he doesn't shuffle his feet.

"Yes. I mean, I hope."

She looks at the elevators, then back at him. "Will they miss you?"

"Probably. I don't care." He knows how he looks, earnest and pathetic, but he can't help it. He wants her to say yes. He wants her to take him home. He doesn't care what happens after that, he just wants to go home with her, to be invited into her space, to see her at her most vulnerable and her most intimate. She could leave him on the couch, or, hell, on the front stoop. He doesn't care. He  _doesn't_. He just wants to be with her.

She bites her lip, indecision on her face. "Will they be mad?"

The breath goes out of him in a rush. "Does it matter?"

"I really want you to come home with me, Steve."

"I really want to." He's staring at her, begging her with his eyes, with his posture, praying that she puts her hand out, invites him with her. He'd get to his knees if he thought it would help.

She glances toward the doors, then back at him. "Would you come home with me?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

He thinks his knees are going to give out on him, anyway. He'd suffer the embarrassment for this. "Yes."

 

 

*

 

He keeps his hands to himself in her hallway as she unlocks her front door. He stands, politely, in the narrow entry hall as she locks it behind them. She gives him a shy smile, but she goes through her ritual: shucking her shoes, laying her purse and keys on the table against the wall, shrugging out of her coat. She begins to unpin her hair and looks up at him, still smiling, when she invites him to make himself comfortable and nods toward the living room.

"I need a glass of water. Do you want anything?"

 _You_ , he wants to say. He can see her couch from where he's standing. He wants to go, to sit down, to pull her into his lap and touch her and kiss her. He smiles instead, toes off his dress shoes, and tells her no, thank you. He peels off the tuxedo jacket and leaves it on the coat rack.

He doesn't watch her go to the kitchen. He doesn't look back at all as he pads through her living room. He settles on her couch. There are a million little things to take in, details of her life he was previously not privy to, and he thinks maybe those things are just as arousing to him as the way she looks coming toward him, hair down, guard down.

She doesn't even pretend. He's glad for it. She fills his lap, his hands, and she runs her fingers through his hair and she kisses him. She kisses him as she never has, not even in the stolen privacy of cabs or elevators or in shadows. She kisses him with fire, with need, and he tries to keep his hands above her waist, he does, but the curve of her bottom is so tempting and she's so soft, so warm, in his arms, against his chest. Her lips are sweet but her tongue is sweeter. He aches to lay her out and taste his fill of her.

He doesn't know how to ask her for that, either.

The kisses seem to go on forever and not long enough. She rests her forehead to his, breathing hard, and he can't bring himself to open his eyes, not even to meet hers. He licks his lips, capturing the last traces of her--lipstick and champagne and sweetness. She strokes the pad of her thumb over his skin, rough with stubble, right in front of his ear. He's warm and warming just from that touch and he hopes, desperately, that she doesn't throw him out. Not now.

"Take a shower with me," she murmurs.

He tightens his arms around her. He pulls her closer, trying not to crush her, and he stands. "Where's your bathroom?"

She presses her face to his neck and she laughs. "Dark doorway behind the kitchen," she mumbles against his skin, and he's glad that she's so short, because he holds her high against his chest, not his hips, so she can't feel the twitch of his prick in his trousers.

Reluctantly, he sets her down in the bathroom. She looks up at him fondly before she turns away, and as she busies herself setting the water temperature, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn't get far. He stares down at her, wonderingly, his skin prickling with familiar heat, as she opens the buttons of his shirt and kisses him through the soft cotton undershirt. She strips him, quick and efficient, and he can't help the surge of smug masculine pride at her gasp when she pushes his briefs down to his thighs, freeing his dick.

That pride dissipates when she wraps her hands around him and strokes once.

He stops her. He won't last, not if he lets her keep that up. "Your turn," he murmurs.

She looks suddenly nervous.

He knows why. He's felt that why. He can't have it, not between them. He holds his breath and wonders what he can do, but he doesn't have to do anything. She laughs at herself, shaking her head, and turns away from him.

"I'm not as impressive as you are," she tells him. "There's a hook at the top of the zipper, if you don't mind. Please."

His hands are shaking. He opens the little hook and lowers the zipper, his knuckles skimming her back. She's holding her breath. He strips her, slow, careful, and tries hard to control his trembling. Of course she's impressive. Of course she's beautiful. His fingers itch to map every inch of her, but he doesn't, he just helps her out of the dress, out of the bra, out of the panties. While he's on his knees, he can't resist pressing his cheek to the curve of her hip, and he doesn't. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around her and he just takes a moment to breathe.

Then her fingers are in his hair. "Come on, Steve." And he's following her into the shower.

There's not enough space for both of them, but she doesn't seem to mind and he certainly doesn't. She starts to wash her hair, but he takes over for her, mostly to bring her closer, to see her eyes shut and to watch relaxation roll through her. He wants to kiss her, wants to pick her up, wants to take her here, under the hot spray, holding her whole weight just because he can. Instead, he rinses the bubbles from her hair and wipes them from her face. The most he steals is a kiss, long and lingering, and the feel of her hot wet body sliding against his makes his gut clench. He still doesn't know what they're doing, where this is going, but he doesn't care. As long as she lets him stay, he doesn't care.

When they're clean, she steps out first, and she lets him hold her hand while she does. There are towels on the radiator--habit, he assumes, because it's too late in the year for warm towels to be a luxury-- and she wraps one around herself, hiding her body, and he can't help thinking of what she'll look like in candlelight or at dawn. She tosses the other at his head, and he laughs. The smile she gives him makes his heart leap into his throat.

"Dry off," she tells him. And she lingers in the doorway as he does, blushing as he scrubs the soft towel over his hard prick. He doesn't think he's ever been so hard in his life, doesn't think he's ever felt the thrum of anticipation even as he feels the stress of always being on, of being  _Captain America_ , seeping away. Naked and turned on and standing in this woman's bathroom, he feels safe in a way he hasn't since before his mother got sick.

And that's something, isn't it?

He wraps the towel around his waist and takes the hand she offers. He shuts off the light on his way out, trailing behind her through the living room, to another darkened doorway. He wants to scoop her up, carry her into her bedroom, but he thinks that once was enough for tonight. Maybe she'll let him next time. Maybe there will be a next time.

Her bedroom is small, cluttered, feminine. It smells, overwhelmingly, of her--of her skin, of her scent, of her perfume. Her bed is unexpectedly large. There's space for him. He's not self-centered enough to think that she planned it that way, and he might feel a pang that he won't have a good reason to wrap around her when they sleep--if, he reminds himself, that she invites him to stay; he's aware of modern conventions--but there's space for him all the same. He thinks, a little recklessly, that maybe there  _is_  a place for him in her life.

She curls a hand in the towel at his belly, her fingers pushing in between cotton and skin, and his breath catches. He meets her eyes and she's looking up at him through her lashes. There are high spots of color on her face, but he recognizes the set of her jaw. She has a plan. She tugs him forward, maneuvers him around until he's sinking onto the padded bench at the foot of her bed. The towel is open. He can't take his eyes from her, from the way she looks at him, shoulders to ankles, before she really looks at him. Her eyes darken and she licks her lips.

Breathing. He has to remember to breathe.

He forgets again when she slips to her knees between his and runs her hands up the outsides of his thighs. Her name slips out, but then her lips are there, pressed to his, and she's stroking her tongue over his. He puts a hand in her hair and holds her, trying to pour everything he feels into the kiss, into her. He licks and nips and kisses over the edges of her lips, and when they break, finally, he keeps her anchored. He keeps his eyes shut and takes deep shuddering breaths.

She kisses his chin. She says his name, says, "Let me," and it's a request, a plea, and when he opens his eyes, hers are there, darkened with lust but bright with joy, and he steals one more kiss before he lets her go.

Down, her lips on his neck, his chest, his stomach. She runs her hands up and down his sides, over his hip, light touches here, the fine hot scratch of her nails there. He strokes his fingers through her hair and watches her, unable to look away, even when she kisses along the line of his hip, angling in, and her hands sink between his thighs. His fingers twitch in her hair when he feels the brush of her fingertips against his sac. His chest compresses, heart and lungs seizing, when she rolls her eyes up to his and licks.

He wants to come up off the bench. His body fights it. He wants to arch his back, thrust his hips, but he doesn't. He shudders with the effort of holding back, tries not to swoon at the sight of her pink tongue slipped between her plump lips, tries not to come at the first wet swipes of that tongue the length of his prick. Every thought, every hope, he might have had flees him in the face of this. In the feeling of this. He draws a ragged breath and feels the muscles of his stomach jump and twitch. And then she parts her lips and takes him in.

He might die. A moan tears out of him, low and primal, and his fingers flex in her hair. He remembers himself, manages not to pull or push or move, but, oh, oh the feel of her mouth, of her hands, the sight of it... He gets lost in it, in the feel of it, in the sight of it, in her eyes rolled up to his and shining. He wants to kiss her. He wants to hold her. He wants to tell her how it feels, what he's thinking, but he can't find the words. He can manage moans, sighs, soft "oh"s and "ah"s of pleasure. Nothing more. He feels mindless. All he can do is  _feel_.

He comes with a shocked cry, too quickly even to warn her.

Shame and guilt burn through him and he stumbles over his incoherent apologies. When his vision clears and he comes back to himself, and she's resting her cheek on his thigh, running her hand up and down his leg. She looks a little dazed and a lot content. He pushes the shame and guilt down; he's not a normal man, he can still give her what she wants--if she wants it. She rolls her eyes up to him and smiles.

"Good?"

"Better than good." He runs his fingers through her hair and strokes her cheek. "I'm sorry."

She turns her face, kisses his palm, and the heat of that simple kiss goes straight to his heart. "Don't be." She flashes him a smile, dirty and sweet. "That's kind of what I was going for."

He laughs. It's strange to him, amazing to him, that he can laugh with her here, with her cheek on his thigh and his come on her lips and his cock softening between his legs, the full-body flush of orgasm receding and his mind clearing, slowly, centering again on this woman and not his body. He pulls her to her feet and paws at the towel until it's pooled on the floor around her feet. He sees the twitch of muscle in her arm, the subtle shift of her thighs closer together. He pulls her into his arms and into his lap and he drapes her arms over his shoulders. He runs his hands up and down her back, follows the curve of her bottom, the length of her thighs, and he looks up into her face.

"What do you want? Anything."

She doesn't say. She smiles at him, and she takes one of his hands. She kisses his fingers, his palm, and she slips away, past him, crawling up on the bed. He turns to follow the sight of her and gasps. She's all angles and lines, hips and shoulders, but she's crawling, her rear high, and he can see her cunt. He crawls up after her.

She settles on her back and parts her legs just a little. He goes beside her, stretching out, half-over her, and she curves an arm around his neck. She takes his hand, the one he rested on her belly, up to her neck, and down. She shows him how to touch her, across the top of her chest and at her breasts. She shows him how to brush his fingertips the length of her side. He takes it from there, stroking her hip, across her belly, back up, moving a little further down with each pass. When she licks her lips, he takes it as an invitation and kisses her. Kisses her as he touches the tips of his fingers to her, where she's hot and open and wet, and they gasp together.

He strokes her pussy, the silky lips outside and in, top to bottom and back, until his fingers are slick and she spreads her legs wide for him. He presses his face to her neck, to lick and suck her there, to kiss her, as he seeks the button of her clit. She gasps. He strokes circles around it, over it; he traps it between the sides of his fingers and slides them back and forth. Her back arches, her hips rock. He doesn't stop, doesn't speed, doesn't slow. Her fingers dig into his shoulder, his hair, and she turns her face, her cheek against his. When she pants his name, when she whispers slurred endearments, his body flushes and his cock stiffens. He nips the side of her neck and keeps at it, keeps touching her just like that, until she cries softly against his ear and her body goes rigid. He feels the fluttering in her belly, in her thighs, hears the ragged irregular breaths. He kisses up her neck, over her cheek, to her lips. She cups his face and takes his kiss.

He can't believe this. He can't believe his luck. He rests his hand on her hip and ducks his head to rest his cheek on her chest. He closes his eyes and listens to the  _thump thump thump_  of her heartbeat, feels the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. His mind drifts. His dick is hard against her leg but he can't bring himself to care, not with her fingers in his hair, up and down his arm, not with her body loose and warm under his.

He has to stop running just because they call. He has to stop jumping like he's the only one who can save anyone. He needs this, right here, with her.

She laughs and he realizes he must have spoken. He lifts his head, blushing, trying to apologize, but she pulls him into another kiss, pulls him over her. She rolls her hips, brushing her damp pussy against his prick, and he trembles.

"You have to stop-- I don't--" His brain scrabbles for the medical briefings and he only finds the propaganda films.

She loops her arms around his neck and kisses him, again and again, and explaining between them in a low raspy voice all about hormonal birth control. He remembers that. From the briefings. A fleeting memory of unflappable Coulson looking vaguely uncomfortable. Then she's rocking her hips up again, rubbing against him. He moans and presses his face to her neck.

"It needs to be good for you," he mumbles. Because he wants her to invite him back. Because she's had a long day, she's tired, she's been on display. Because he wants her to feel alive, and free, and present. Because all he wants is to sink into her and take and take until he can't see straight.

She rubs her feet along his legs and cants her hips, opening herself up to him. "Steve. Please."

Sliding into her feels like coming home. He gasps against her neck and hears her moan. His body takes over, a few deep thrusts, before he gets control of himself. He wants a ride, a long slow ride, and he wants to see her face. He kisses her cheek, moves his hands to under her head, wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. He slides in deep, too deep from the flinch of pain he kisses away, murmuring his apologies, and he watches her, careful, as he moves. He finds it after several strokes, the angle that turns her expression slack and blissful, and he keeps at it. Rolling hips, slow thrusts, slower withdrawals. She's shaking in his arms, under him, chattering his name until he captures her lips, steals her breath. She's weak and warm and liquid beneath him, a vice around him. She's loose, flexing, pliant beneath him, stroking his back, his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair.

"Come inside me," she murmurs. She clenches, down low, and he groans. "Come inside me, Steve. Come for me."

He can't. He can't resist that, wouldn't know how to try. He moans against her neck and slides in, and he's coming, hot and so fast it nearly hurts, but she's welcoming, warm, wrapped around him, stroking his hair, his back, kissing his face. He should move, he knows he should, he's heavy. But she's in no hurry, her legs around him haven't eased at all. He licks at the salt of her neck and thinks, this is all he needs.

"Let's do that again. Let's do a lot of that."

She laughs, a rich, throaty sound, and he thinks that if he wasn't in love before, that laugh could make him fall. He lifts his head to steal it, to take as much of it as he can, and she drags her fingers through his hair and kisses him back, hot and fierce.

She's looking up into his eyes when they break. "I'm glad you came home with me."

He kisses her gently. "I'm glad you asked me."

The room is suddenly cool and he's all too aware of himself, of their bodies. He worries about the weight of him and slips off, to the side, wanting to take her with him but unsure of himself now. He wants to crawl under the covers, wrap around her, and sleep. But he doesn't know...

She kisses his forehead and pushes herself up to sit. "Don't look so worried."

"I'm sorry," he says automatically. He studies the curve of her back, the angle of her shoulder.

She runs her hand down his arm, kisses him once more, and clambers gracelessly over him. "Don't be. Just don't look so worried." She starts for the door, beautifully naked, and pauses in the doorway to glance over her shoulder at him. Worry darkens her face, briefly. "Are you going?"

He sits up, swings his legs off the bed. He doesn't want to. He frowns down at his knees. "Should I?" He doesn't relish the thought of putting his suit back on.

"I-- I'd like for you to stay. The night. But, I mean, I know if you-- If you don't want to, or don't want to be seen--"

He winces. He looks up at her. She's too swarthy, too broad, too soft in places and not soft enough in others, too strong-featured to be considered pretty these days, by the standards as he understands them--and as Clint and Tony have helpfully pointed out. But she's beautiful. She's beautiful and he thinks he loves her, because she makes him feel like himself, like he always wanted to feel with a woman before the serum, before the war, before everything. And maybe it's Oedipal, maybe it's wrong, but she makes him think of his mother. Strong and smart and brave and selfless. He just wants to be near her.

"I'll sleep on the couch if you'll let me stay," he says, because he needs to smile, because he needs her to smile at him.

Relief washes over her. "Don't be silly. I think the bed's big enough for both of us." She disappears then.

He slides off the bed. Across the living room, he hears the bathroom door click shut. He looks around her bedroom, eyes lingering on the rumpled coverlet, then on the padded bench. Warmth suffuses him, makes his limbs heavy. He feels drowsy. He feels... like he can relax.

Through the living room, into the kitchen. He drinks two glasses of water, finds a dish towel, wets it, and cleans himself. He leaves it in the hamper on top of the washer in the little closet in the kitchen, then starts turning off lights. He checks the front door. It's not his apartment, he's taking liberties, but he'll apologize if he has to.

When she comes out of the bathroom, he's waiting to go in. She smiles up at him. "Bed?"

"Just give me a minute."

She nods. She's still naked and he's trying not to look at her breasts, at the junction of her thighs. She smiles and starts for the bedroom, her fingers grazing his stomach. "There's a new toothbrush under the sink if you want it."

It's achingly mundane. It's normal. It's comfortable. He relieves himself, brushes his teeth, runs his fingers through his hair. He dries his hands and face and shuts off the bathroom light, and then the living room light, and he drifts toward her bedroom. She's already in bed, under the covers, the only light in the room now from the single lamp on the single nightstand. Her face lights up. He crawls in beside her and draws her into his arms, unwilling to be away from her for another moment. He kisses her temple and sighs, eyes drifting shut.

For now, there's no world to save, no red, white, and blue costume to put on, no character to play. He reaches over to shut off the light, then pulls her in again. He's a man going to sleep with a woman, in love--not ready to admit it out loud, maybe, but in love nevertheless. She kisses his chest, lifts her face to kiss his lips, and she whispers good night.

He doesn't let her go.


End file.
